


we should come like ghosts

by syllogismos



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:10:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syllogismos/pseuds/syllogismos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s <em>George</em> that continues to captivate him about that scene, even if it should be the shock of Haydon’s treachery. George hadn’t let the shock and disappointment get to him; he’d been unruffled, calm and composed and casually forceful with his stocking feet and the gun in his hand. Impressive, to say the least. Attractive, perhaps is the truth of the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we should come like ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aerye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerye/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Как привидения, мы не были б желанны](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003938) by [fandom_gerontophilia_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_gerontophilia_2016/pseuds/fandom_gerontophilia_2016)



“I’ll keep Peter.”

It’s the beginning of a new intimacy. Parters, in essence. And the change is near immediate. Searching Control’s flat, their conversation is conducted in gesture and glance, words unnecessary.

Peter tries out “George,” and Smiley’s spine betrays a moment of shock, but he rolls his shoulders and lets it fall away. And at the hotel, he confirms the shift in formality: “Peter,” he says, “I need you to do something for me.”

* * *

“I should get some rest,” Peter starts, providing his exit, as is habit between them. “I suppose you’ve got your reading to do.” They’ve always respected boundaries; the personal stays personal. Peter has his reasons for that, and George must too.

But Smiley—no, _George_ —lays a hand to Peter’s arm, wraps his fingers around it up near Peter’s elbow. It’s warm, but his grip is flighty, tentative, and then gone after an awkward pat.

“Come up.”

Still recovering from the shock of the contact, Peter loses the moment to protest. He has no choice but to accept and follow.

“Make yourself comfortable,” George instructs, shucking his overcoat.

Peter hangs his overcoat and jacket carefully and watches as George pours the Scotch. Two fingers for them both, not a brief conversation. Peter starts perched at the end of the bed, but it’s not comfortable and becomes odder the farther George slouches down into his chair, until he’s well below Peter’s eye line. So Peter relocates to the floor, legs stretched out in front of himself and crossed at the ankle. George interrupts himself while Peter’s settling, turning to watch before his gaze slides down and to the side. Checking Peter’s drink, Peter realises belatedly, after the skin at the nape of his neck has already prickled and heated with the unexpected attention.

In the end, the events of the evening string together into a constellation: George’s hand on Peter’s arm, the invitation, Peter listening to George’s tale of Karla from his position on the floor, the cheap polyester of the hotel bedspread scratching at the back of his neck, Scotch warming his veins. The constellation glitters in Peter’s mind, bright with the light of strangeness, but then it’s suddenly recast by Smiley’s suggestion: “If there’s anything you need tidied up, now’s the time.”

* * *

George ordered the investigation into Peter from a habit of thoroughness that it seemed particularly stupid to abandon now, with the Circus in upheaval, born anew under Alleline’s leadership but still teetering on the brink of collapse. George invites Mendel inside because of the rain and supplies him with tea out of politeness, but he isn’t expecting the report to take long.

The top left corner of the envelope is soaked, and the paper bleeds a brown puddle onto the table that spreads further when Mendel pushes the envelope across to George. George fingers the fastener but doesn’t pick it up.

“Have a look.”

George spreads his fingers wide and flattens his hand over the envelope, as if to hide it from view.

“Is it bad?”

Mendel only shrugs.

Inside the envelope, there are photographs, six of them, slightly wrinkled from the damp at the left corners and bearing the marks of where they were hung in Mendel’s own darkroom. He’s a careful man, Mendel. A good man.

The first photograph features a man who could be George, really. Same age, same general build and even style of dress. (Which is to say: neat and well put together, but not fashionable.) He’s balding and doesn’t wear glasses, but otherwise undifferentiated. In the first photograph he’s just walking, in the second approaching a small building of flats. The building is like him: neat, but unremarkable, perhaps even a bit rundown, tired.

George looks up briefly, and Mendel raises his eyebrows and circles two fingers. _Keep going._

The next two photographs share locations with the first two, a matched pair, but the subject differs: now it’s Peter on the street, Peter approaching the building. The fifth photo also features Peter; he’s unlocking the front door to the building. And the final photo could almost be art: two shadows behind glowing curtains, embracing. Both are men (of similar height and build), and it’s difficult to say for certain in silhouette, but they appear to be kissing.

“It isn’t exactly _conclusive_ evidence,” George says slowly.

“They live together.”

George doesn’t respond; he needs proof, and if Mendel has it, he’ll provide.

“Befriended the landlady, told her I thought Richard there—that’s his name, he’s a school teacher—was an old grammar school friend of mine, but I couldn’t be sure. She was all clammed up, swore up and down he wasn’t a tenant until I dropped in mentions of Abse and The Act of 1967 and how I was in favour of both. Then she told me all about him, Richard the school teacher who moved in with Peter the banker some nine months ago.”

“Peter the banker,” George repeats.

“Dresses like one, don’t you think?”

“Do you think it’s a problem?”

Mendel shrugs again, but yields his thoughts into words under the severity of George’s gaze. “There’s the possibility of leverage, of course. Other than that, if you ask me, what people do in their own homes is no one’s business but theirs.”

George nods, gathers up the photos and replaces them in the envelope. “Thank you. Nothing changes, for now.”

When Mendel’s left, George can admit to himself that it’s a lie. Things have changed: George’s concept of Peter has changed. Peter the snappy dresser, Peter the private homosexual. He’s careful about it, unsurprisingly. What Mendel gathered was hardly damning, but it’s dangerous all the same. He’ll have to be warned. Richard, in all likelihood, will have to go. George can’t imagine Peter has told Richard what he _really_ does; Peter is a true believer, loyal to the bone. So Richard won’t understand, no matter what excuse Peter tries to make, and that will be the end of it. The thought of that is oddly satisfying, and George has to examine it from several directions before he realises that he actually might be _jealous_ of Richard. Richard who gets to see Peter unbuttoned and relaxed, Richard who gets to tell Peter about his day, Richard who…

Georges likes Peter, that’s the long and short of it. He’s liked having Peter by his side, constantly, ever since this nightmare started. Peter waiting for him to finish his swim; Peter at the wheel with George in the passenger seat. It’s become comfortable, companionable.

And George’s eyes have always found Peter an easy resting place. His face is fascinating, delicately strange, inviting further study of his pronounced cheekbones and the lush Cupid’s bow of his mouth. It’s an aesthetic attraction, George used to tell himself, but he might have been lying.

* * *

Peter’s despair at Richard’s departure doesn’t last long; he can’t afford for it to. There’s something else—something new—that demands equal if not more of his attention: George knows. That’s _why_ Richard had to leave: because George knows and offered his warning, which was discreet, if not inoffensive. Peter’s lover is something to be ‘tidied up’, is it? What a charmingly dismissive view of the relationship Peter’s been putting everything he can spare into cultivating and committing to. Although perhaps that’s an uncharitable thought; George isn’t unkind, by nature, perhaps he was only truly trying to be tactful.

Back to the point: George _knows_. And his direction to Peter to ‘tidy up’ may have been the motivation behind the invitation, although that doesn’t quite explain the length of the conversation, the Scotch, the weight of George’s gaze.

It seems impossible to tally the sum. George looked into Peter, investigated him. Set the lamplighters on him, or, perhaps, Mendel. At the same time, George has been…if not _friendlier_ , less formal, and it doesn’t feel like a case of keep your enemies closer. Feelings, however, should not be trusted in cases such as this. It may very well be ‘keep your enemies closer,’ and Peter will have to guard against that possibility. But then again, there’s the fact of the touch, of George’s hand on Peter’s arm and the multiple messages thereby conveyed. An apology for keeping the fact of Tarr’s arrival in London from Peter. Comfort, perhaps. It had felt of comfort, certainly, what with the warmth of it, the unexpected gentleness. And the invitation to come up, of course, communicated across multiple channels. All together, it’s a puzzle, and—thankfully—a distraction.

* * *

Tarr is, as he himself might have put it (just not about himself), a bit of a fucking prick. He wants out, does he? Wants to settle down with Irina (dead, George learned that from Prideaux), have children, leave behind his scalphunting for placid domesticity. It’s almost bizarre enough to be entertaining instead of infuriating, but Tarr is so bloody _earnest_ about it. He actually _believes_ it. Peter’s known him long enough to know his tells; Tarr is nothing if not a practiced liar, but he’s not lying now. This is, for better or worse, Tarr in the clear. Honest, direct: “I do not want to end up like you lot.”

Peter betrays no physical sign—discipline and self-restraint hold him back (because what other tools does the homosexual son of a retired colonel have?)—but hearing Tarr derisively dismiss his life, _him_ as a member of ‘you lot’ makes him want to scream. If only Tarr knew what it takes—what it _takes_ —to keep up the appearance of a casually philandering, work-obsessed bachelor. Which is what he is again now that Richard is left, minus the casual philandering.

The stitched leather of the steering wheel is smooth and cold under his palms and fingers, and Peter picks at the stitches underneath with one finger and barely perceptible motion. You wouldn’t know his worry to look at him, and that’s by design.

“He wouldn’t have gone if you’d told him.”

“No,” says George, “and it doesn’t do him any good to know. We can’t even be sure it was her.”

Peter looks over, but George is looking out the window. From what Prideaux told George (and George told Peter), it doesn’t make sense for the woman to have been anyone other than Tarr’s Irina. It may be an inference, but it’s a damn good one, and for all that Peter doesn’t feel anything resembling responsibility for Tarr’s happiness, the deceit— _George’s_ deceit—grates against his conscience. This is what the Circus has become. Hyenas, not wolves.

* * *

“It’s not what you think.” So begins a missing piece of the puzzle. “Because he was at my house that night.”

The silence is unbearable, and George falters first. He settles his silverware at the edges of his plate and leans back, nodding down at his half-eaten burger. “I quite like this.”

But Peter can’t let it go. “At your house?” he parrots stupidly.

“He and Ann…”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

In exchange for his knowledge of Richard, George has chosen to expose an equally private piece of information: his wife Ann has been having an affair with Bill Haydon. It feels like a fair trade and a levelling of the playing field (even if it isn’t precisely that, what with what Peter is).

George is in this with Peter. In deep. And it’s personal. Together they’ll find out the mole and expose him, become heroes. Or they won’t, and they’ll go down together. A _folie á deux_.

Peter sighs. It’s preferable to a singular madness, at the least. “What now?”

“Now,” George says slowly, picking up his silverware again, poised to eat, “Now we lay a trap.” He cuts another too-formal bite of his burger, but pauses with the fork halfway to his mouth. “Or two.”

Peter feels the edges of his mouth curl into a smile; he’s helpless to stop it.

* * *

When he gets to the top of the stair and looks inside, Peter is struck dumb with it. Bill Haydon. It had to have been one of them, and he wasn’t expecting it to be any of them, but still. Bill Haydon. Peter feels almost a voyeur, looking on, perhaps because George—thoughtfully, intelligently, but still _absurdly_ —is in his socks, sitting calmly with his legs crossed, one socked foot dangling a foot from the floor, but his gun trained steadily on Haydon.

The image unexpectedly burns itself into Peter’s brain, and it keeps floating to the top of his mind. He’s trying to sleep, the day finally over. There should be a sense of conclusion, if not satisfaction, but Peter feels odd in the middle of the bed and odder on “his” side, the other half empty, and the ceiling stares back at him coldly as he remembers George and senses a tightness gather behind and below his navel.

It’s _George_ that continues to captivate him about that scene, even if it should be the shock of Haydon’s treachery. George hadn’t let the shock and disappointment get to him; he’d been unruffled, calm and composed and casually forceful with his stocking feet and the gun in his hand. Impressive, to say the least. Attractive, perhaps is the truth of the matter.

Peter has had this conversation with himself before. George is an astoundingly good example of his _type_ , but he’s off limits, has to be so for more reasons than bear enumerating. (That would be a tiresome task.)

It could be argued that the mind is free to go where the body is not, but Peter has exercised his will to avoid that temptation, afraid he might not again be able to look George in the eye after he’d considered the possibility of divesting George of his shirt and trousers, sliding down his body to take him into his mouth, gathering a different sort of intelligence, measuring and tasting the most intimate part of him.

There may be nothing for it now. Peter groans, feeling his blood rush southwards even at the hint of a thought of it, and his groan echoes in the empty bedroom. _Just this once_ , he assures himself, _it was a hard day_. When he spills into his hand, it’s to the contemplation of the sound George might make and the shape his mouth might form if he came into Peter’s mouth, the fingers of one hand threaded into Peter’s hair.

* * *

The building looks nicer than it had in the photos. The strip of garden on the side is well-tended, the front door and railings freshly painted. Peter will be surprised at the house call, but it’s not as if he doesn’t know that George knows where he lives. And Peter deserves to hear this news as soon as possible, and to hear it from George.

Peter answers the door promptly. He’s stripped to his shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, buttons undone almost halfway down, revealing rather a lot of pale, wiry chest.

“George.”

His name carries surprise and a small amount of hesitation; Peter is unsure whether the informality between them is a permanent change. “Hello, Peter. Might I come in?”

Peter is a gracious host, despite the unexpected visit, taking and hanging George’s coat and then setting himself the task of making tea.

George finds himself hesitating, hanging back just inside the threshold to the kitchen. Peter deserves to hear the news, but there isn’t a good way to say it. There’s only one way.

“Bill Haydon is dead.”

Tea saucers clatter on the table when Peter drops them. One of them cracks.

“What?” Peter gathers himself, hands on hips, then more angrily: “ _How?_ ”

“Shot in the head, quite neatly. At the Nursery.”

“Wh-” Peter stops himself from asking, and George nods.

“You can answer that for yourself.”

“Prideaux.”

George abruptly moves into the kitchen, no longer comfortable hanging back. He aims for the cupboard from which Peter had been retrieving the cups and saucers—another saucer is needed now—but Peter doesn’t move aside to let him reach. Peter’s mouth works: opens, closes, until he accuses, staring George down, “You’re just going to let him get away with it?”

“It’s done,” George says quietly, laying a hand on Peter’s arm, pushing slightly in an attempt to get him to step aside.

But Peter explodes. Screams, wrenching his arm out of George’s grasp. He turns into the wall, pressing his forehead and palms to it, his shoulders high and tense.

“It’s _wrong_ ,” he says to the wall, George straining to hear him.

“It is.” George takes a step closer, although he doesn’t have a clue what to do, how to help.

But he wants to help, and the space between Peter’s shoulder blades is the right size to accept his hand, so he lays it there tentatively. Peter tenses further at the touch but doesn’t shrug it off, so George presses a little and spreads his fingers slightly.

“I’m sorry.” George can feel each breath that Peter draws in and releases, and at the apology he feels him heave a sigh; his hand rises and falls with it. “You’ve sacrificed a lot.”

“And for _nothing_.” Bitterness drips from Peter’s words.

“No,” George steps closer, so close one of his feet is between Peter’s. He strokes his hand up and down the top of Peter’s spine, still attempting, however vainly, to soothe. “Not for nothing. We caught the mole.”

Peter makes an unintelligible sort of sound, a half-snort, despairing. He starts to push away from the wall, but George presses closer, his leg connecting with Peter’s. He moves his hand to the back of Peter’s neck and pushes his fingers up into Peter’s hair. “Shhh.” He rubs at the skin he can reach with his thumb, a tender spot behind Peter’s ear. “It’s okay.”

Peter breathes in shakily, a perceptible hitch visible in his shoulders. He tenses, perhaps as if to break the embrace, and George acts on instinct, wrapping his free arm around Peter’s waist and pulling him back into his chest. “It will be okay,” he whispers, still rubbing behind Peter’s ear, “Just let it go.”

* * *

At the end of his first month as Lord and Master at the top of the Circus, George appears again at Peter’s flat. He brings a bottle of single malt as a partial inoculation against the memory of Peter sobbing in George’s embrace, and it almost works, were it not for George’s fingers brushing Peter’s as he accepts his glass. Peter flushes and remembers, and George, oh-so-kindly, oh-so-politely, as always, turns away.

George turns to Peter’s paltry collection of records and peruses them at random. He retrieves one in particular and purses his lips, considering. From across the room, Peter can’t see what he’s chosen.

“I didn’t know you liked jazz.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh?”

“That’s Richard’s.” Peter then corrects himself: “ _Was_ Richard’s, I suppose.”

George puts the record back in its place, but he offers no apology. In a hot rush of anger, Peter wishes he would have done. A vulgar, _post facto_ apology would be just the thing to keep him angry enough to quell this damn longing.

“Ann and I are getting a divorce,” George offers as the evening is drawing to a close, all of the more pressing subjects at length exhausted. “I should have told you earlier. She was waiting for me at home with the papers before even Prideaux…”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, too quickly.

“You’re not.”

Peter shrugs.

“I’m not heartbroken over it!” George snaps.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You–” George stops, reconsiders as he empties his Scotch. “It wasn’t only her fault, I don’t think.”

“Oh?”

Peter watches George’s gaze shift into the long distance, into memory. “She was so beautiful. I wanted to keep her because I didn’t want anyone else to have her, but I’m not sure I ever truly wanted her. Not in the right way.”

Peter chokes off a laugh. “Is there a right way and a wrong way?”

“You don’t think so?”

“I think it’s beside the point.” Peter leans forward, elbows on his knees, giving George a generous view of his chest through his once again gaping shirt. “You’re trying to implicate yourself because it looks better.”

“Better?”

“It makes you look less stupid. She walked all over you for decades, George, and the only way that doesn’t look entirely pathetic is if you were using her too.”

George seethes; his knuckles are white around his empty tumbler, his spine ramrod stiff.

Peter has a devil in him, can’t explain it. He leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other, and laces his fingers behind his head. “If you want to convince me I’m wrong, you have to prove it.”

For long moments George doesn’t move or speak, and when he does get up, his first move is a half-turn towards the door, as if he’s going to walk straight out of Peter’s flat. But he’s clearly warring with himself, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Another thirty seconds and he turns back to Peter. He strikes quickly, hauling Peter up from the sofa by one side of his shirt collar. He pushes his fingers into Peter’s hair at the back of his head, just like before, and locks Peter in with an arm around his waist before he kisses him.

Uncharacteristically, this time Peter doesn’t care a whit about how he got it, only that he has what he’s wanted for so long: the taste of George in his mouth. George isn’t gentle, he’s angry and frustrated, and Peter wonders if the corner of his mouth might split under the assault. (He wouldn’t mind; it would be evidence.)

George continues to push until Peter stumbles backwards and his knees buckle when they hit the sofa. Peter flops back onto the sofa, and George catches his balance with both hands to either side of Peter’s head, leaning over him, panting.

Peter reaches for George’s glasses, slides them off and sets them to the side. George isn’t looking him in the eye, so he raises a hand to George’s cheek and turns his face. George still aims his gaze away, but Peter’s content to wait. He traces the line of George’s jaw with his fingertips, and George’s mouth—still heated and slightly swollen—with his thumb. When George finally looks him in the eye, Peter pulls his head down by his chin and speaks into his lips, “Is this what you want?”

He kisses George, gently and slowly, releasing him after a bare minute.

“Yes,” George half-whispers, half-croaks. He pushes his forehead into Peter’s and closes his eyes. Peter moves his hand to the back of George’s neck and squeezes. _It’s okay._

* * *

George only has time to swim at Hampstead Ponds at the weekends now, but Peter still comes to watch and wait, and many a time his car follows George’s driving away.

George doesn’t indulge in a hot shower after his swim, only a quick cold rinse before he puts his clothes back on. His hair will smell of pond water for the rest of the day, a scent Peter has grown accustomed to and hopes to associate with George for many years to come.

On this day, Peter has succeeded in persuading George back to the bedroom, got him to lay on his back with stripes of morning light falling across his body. He props himself on his side next to George, kisses him as he unbuttons his shirt and trousers. George’s skin is still cold from the pond, and he flinches when Peter curls his fingers around his chilled, limp cock. Peter doesn’t move his hand at all, only waits for George to relax. Eventually, George frees the breath he’d been holding and reaches for Peter, sifting his fingers through Peter’s hair as Peter explores his flaccid cock, learning its shape and feel.

It takes a long time for George to grow to full excitement, but Peter is patient, even enjoys the slow shift from deep, silent breaths to the occasional breathy moan to rapid panting sprinkled with a grunt or, quite rarely indeed, something resembling a whine. To finish them both off—for Peter is desperate himself now, holding back only by the skin of his teeth and the uncomfortable constriction of his trousers—he strips them both from the waist down and lays himself on top of George, one hand between them, pressing their cocks together and pulling out long strokes that make him grit his teeth it’s too good. George bucks and pulls Peter into a desperate, messy kiss, then comes with a groan and a hand clutching tightly to Peter’s arse. Peter thrusts into the heat and wetness and comes with a helpless whimper a few moments later, falling onto George’s chest with his hand still trapped between them.

George inhales deeply, then exhales. Peter braces himself, unsure of what it means, but George lifts a hand to the back of his head and turns to kiss the side of his throat, and Peter relaxes again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Tennyson's "The Lotos-Eaters." Relevant bit:
>
>> Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange,  
> And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.  
> Or else the island princes over-bold  
> Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings  
> Before them of the ten years’ war in Troy,  
> And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.  
> 
> 
>   
> At least one extra bit of dialogue borrowed from the screenplay of the 2011 film, which is readily available online.
> 
> 'The Act of 1967' is [The Sexual Offences Act 1967](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sexual_Offences_Act_1967), which, in the United Kingdom, decriminalised homosexual acts between two men (of at least 21 years of age) in private.
> 
> Many thanks to #antidiogenes for cheerleading and support.


End file.
